


he senses something, call it desperation

by hamiltrashed



Series: flooded my senses [6]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Coffee Shops, I mean for real this has very little plot but are you really worried about that, It's about trees, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, There's a heckin' sappy moment in here though that's sorta plot-esque ALMOST if u squint, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 10:58:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10661172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltrashed/pseuds/hamiltrashed
Summary: Hamilton's in the mood for sex, only it's not exactly the most appropriate time. Or place. But when has that ever stopped him from doing literally anything?Senses Series |Senses:all.





	he senses something, call it desperation

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, okay, it's been a hot minute! Sorry, everyone! Between school, family stuff, and a dozen other things, I have had approximately zero time to write. For a while, I wasn't even sure if I still knew how. But my beta says this is good, so I'm gonna trust her ever wise judgment and roll with it. This is, AT LAST, the very last part to my senses series, and I hope it's as good as the wait probably made you hope it was gonna be. 
> 
> School is winding down for the semester, so hopefully I'll actually have a little more time to get some writing done! I miss y'all!

It begins with Thomas’s tongue (as many things do; arguments _and_ makeup sex both come to mind), but Thomas has no clue. He’s lost between the pages of a book, nearly oblivious at this point to Alex’s presence in the seat across from him, when his mouth starts doing strangely obscene things. Of course, it isn’t meant to be sexual -- they’re in public after all --  and it’s almost comical to watch Thomas’s tongue seek out the straw in his iced coffee, eyes not moving from the page. But when he finds it, when his tongue curls delicately around it and sucks it into his mouth, Alex abruptly loses all interest in his work.

His pen drops onto his notebook and he settles back in his chair, watching Thomas’s lips on the straw, watching his throat as he swallows. There’s just something about observing someone when they don’t _know_ they’re being observed. It gives unfettered access to the voyeur to examine, to memorise, though there is nothing Alex does not already know about the man in front of him. Still, now and then he quizzes himself, pictures the whole of Thomas’s body in his mind to see if he can place every mark, every scar, every little detail where it belongs. Just now, he thinks of the tiny Orion’s belt of freckles dotting the inside of Thomas’s left thigh, as if imagining other parts of Thomas will distract Alex from his mouth or change the way every part of his own body is instinctively reacting to the unconscious tease of Thomas’s lips and tongue. (It doesn’t.)

Alex reaches for his own drink, but far from cooling him down, the shock of cold coffee on his tastebuds only serves to highlight the warmth creeping up his spine, the flush of anticipation he knows is turning him red around the collar. A long time ago, back when he was young enough for something as innocent as a stiff breeze to work him into an irrepressible state of arousal, Alex had looked forward to the days when these kinds of moods wouldn’t take him so easily, so unexpectedly. He just didn’t have time for all that; work was more important. He was sorely disappointed to find he couldn’t quite control it like that, that he’s just as susceptible now as he was then, and Thomas, looking always like a god, does not help this in the slightest.

Alex stretches, hums tunelessly, sighs, and lets his fingertips drum a soft rhythm on the table, not wanting to interrupt but no longer content to wait for Thomas to notice. It’s this tapping that draws Thomas’s attention to him at last. He raises his eyebrows but says nothing, and Alex wonders if it’s brilliant or just disgustingly, annoyingly cute that this far down the line in their relationship, they can have entire conversations without speaking a word. Whatever it is, he’s glad at the present moment that he doesn’t have to try very hard to be understood. He’s fidgety and restless, tense and nervous, all bedroom eyes and come-get-me posture, and Thomas picks up on it in half a second, lips twitching into a smirk.

God, how Alex used to hate that smirk. It’s as arrogant and smug as ever, and it still irritates him when Thomas uses it as a weapon when they argue, but more often than not now, Alex sees it on his face when Thomas goes to his knees in front of him, full of pride in his own prowess that would be off-putting in anyone else. Thomas at least backs it up with action, action that on a good day has Alex trembling, and on the best days, has Alex making sure all the neighbours know Thomas’s name. He suddenly wants to kiss that smirk off his face, lest anyone else see it and think it’s meant for them. He leans across their little table, stops just short of Thomas’s mouth, looks him dead in the eye and says, “Two minutes.”

Then he’s up from the table with his notebook and his bag, heading for the men’s bathroom at the far end of the coffee shop, relieved to find it single occupancy, relieved to find it empty as if it were waiting just for him. For them. It’s tidy inside, cleaner than he expected, bright blue tiles winking at him from every direction like they know he’s about to defile them in some way. Like they think this is a good idea. Music filters through a fuzzy speaker above him, and from here, he can still hear the noise of the espresso machine which means the staff is unlikely to hear them, to hear the sounds that are about to be coming from their restroom. Alex grins and drops his bag on the floor, stuffs the notebook inside, and counts the seconds from the moment he closes the door behind him. Counts exactly 120 of them before there’s a knock.

As Thomas doesn’t often put down a book for anybody, sometimes not even for him, Alex almost expects to find someone else outside the door, wanting the bathroom for its intended purpose. But it’s him, because of course it is, because this is something they haven’t done and there’s an unwritten bucket list they intend to cross it off of. Thomas slips inside and closes the door, locks it, immediately backs Alex into the wall, knocking the air out of him in a little huff.

“Didn’t think you were gonna come,” Alex lies while Thomas makes quick work of the buttons on his shirt.

“Oh, you know me better than that,” Thomas says. “The book is great and all, but why read fantasy when I’ve got you right in front of me?”

Alex laughs, tips his head back against the wall, letting Thomas kiss and lick at his neck. “Flattery will get you absolutely everywhere,” he says.

“Will it get me in your pants?” Thomas asks, his tone playfully wistful, as if Alex has ever said no, as if he could possibly say no to this. He is distinctly aware of the warmth of Thomas’s hands through the denim of his jeans, trailing over his ass, his hips, his thighs, every part of him Thomas can reach while keeping his mouth attached to Alex’s neck, determinedly marking him, as if the world doesn’t already know that Alex belongs to him in every way it is possible for someone to belong to another.

“Only if you take them off,” Alex answers finally. “I’m feeling lazy.”

Thomas is clearly content to do all the work, and he wastes no time in getting Alex nearly naked, only his boxers remaining and his shirt, hanging off his shoulders and serving as a barrier between his back and the cool tile behind him.

Alex moans when Thomas licks again into the hollow of his throat, nips with his teeth before continuing down along his chest. Alex would be satisfied if Thomas spent the whole day kissing and licking and biting marks into his flesh, tasting every inch of him, but they don’t have the whole day, not here, and he’s not about to complain that Thomas is moving quickly to other parts of his body.

Thomas mouths at him through the cotton of his boxers and Alex gasps, the word “please” on his lips before he can stop himself. Thomas once said he liked it when Alex begged, and Alex has been trying not to give him the satisfaction since, but lord, it’s hard not to plead for it. Thomas grins up at him, says, “Remind me to tease you later until you can’t do anything _but_ beg.”

Alex just rolls his eyes, grins in spite of himself and says, “Get on with it. _Please_.”

Thomas chuckles and tugs his boxers down. Alex steps out of them, kicks them aside, watches Thomas go digging into his wallet, coming up with something small clutched in the palm of his hand that Alex can’t make out. But he doesn’t have to wait very long to find out what it is. He sucks in a lungful of air, exhaling it in a laugh when Thomas’s hair tickles the sensitive flesh between his thighs as he leans in. He groans, back arching against the wall when Thomas slides a slick finger in with ease, and gasps, ““Where the hell did you get trial size lube packets?”

Thomas shrugs. “Laf signed everyone up online for freebies and samples. Did you not get yours?”

Another finger, quick and easy, and Alex moans, pressing his knuckles against his mouth so it doesn’t become a shout. “Must’ve gotten lost in the mail,” he mutters, letting his head thump back against the tile once again. Thomas’s fingers curl inside him, and Alex thrusts his hips away from the wall, eager and urgent, in desperate need of greater relief than this. And yet, this is good, too, always is, because Thomas is good with his hands and can take Alex apart with even the smallest touch.

There’s so much more between them now than simple touch, of course, but it’s touch that changed them, that brought them together. Even in the moments preceding the first time, Thomas had still been so antithetical to Alex’s very being. Up to the very _second_ before, he was no more than a verbal sparring partner. A gorgeous one, one that Alex badly wanted, but only that and nothing else. And then out of nowhere, Alex was in his arms, their bodies pressed together tight, Thomas’s hands attempting to discover and devour every inch of Alex’s body. Thomas became everything all at once, as necessary as the air in Alex’s lungs.

And Alex opens for him so easy now, quick and smooth, Thomas’s hands on him and in him both gentle and firm, both patient and insistent. His tongue flicks across the tip of Alex’s cock, and Alex closes his eyes tight, knowing if he looks down and sees precome smeared across Thomas’s lips, his mouth around him, this’ll end before it begins and he’s not about to let that happen.

There’s excitement coursing through him. They can’t really get caught with the door locked, but the idea of people just on the other side of the door, feet away, getting coffee and reading and working, doing exceedingly normal things while Thomas fucks him stupid in the bathroom is making him tremble.

“Hurry,” Alex breathes, because even if they can’t be heard, the idea of someone knowing is both alarming and alluring and because he wants Thomas in him now already, badly, so badly he can hardly stand it. He squirms at the absence of Thomas’s fingers when he pulls them free, muscles clenching on air, the suddenness and severity of his own need bordering on embarrassing. He bites his lip and Thomas makes a noise in his throat when he looks up at him, a half-laugh.

“You’re twenty-eight, coy doesn’t suit you,” Thomas says, and yet he’s standing, kissing him, biting Alex’s lip too, hauling him up by the backs of his thighs so his legs go around Thomas’s waist. Alex doesn’t bother to ask when he got his jeans down around his thighs, when he got himself ready, it’s only clear that he is when he feels Thomas pushing into him, wet and slick, slow, inch by perfect inch. Alex’s nails dig into his back and he clings to Thomas, not because he’s worried about being dropped, but because he already can’t get enough. The euphoric, pleasant fullness he feels is fucking rapturous.

And then Thomas’s voice is in his ear, all heavy, hot breaths and that sweet, southern, Virginia drawl that creeps out from wherever he hides it only at times like these, so Alex has come to associate it with sex and nothing else. “You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he tells Alex, and it’s that in-the-moment thing that people say, but Alex knows he means it, and it feels like every bit of him is reaching, clawing for more of Thomas.

Maybe it’s the environment, or maybe it’s just the abruptness of the mood that so swiftly took him over when he looked across the table and saw Thomas’s mouth doing its damndest to work him into a frenzy. Alex doesn’t know and he doesn’t particularly care. All he knows is that for some reason, this time is different from all the rest. One time it will be the cologne Thomas is wearing that makes Alex want him beyond reason, another time, the taste of his lips or the sound of his voice. But this time, it’s everything, all at once. Just now, he is an assault on the senses, a flood in which Alex is pleasantly drowning.

Alex watches the flex of his muscles, the little tremble then the smooth ripple, admires the strength it’s taking for Thomas to hold him up this way seemingly without any real exertion. Alex is pinned between Thomas and the wall and Thomas has got enough leverage to lean up and fuck him, hard and unrelenting and so good that Alex feels his eyes rolling back. But Alex tightens his legs around Thomas’s hips, his arms around his neck, and rocks his hips off the wall to give as good as he’s getting. Thomas’s nails scrape along his thighs, and every noise he makes echoes off the tile, soft but loud, musical, desperate. They sound like bait that Alex can’t resist, so he rolls his hips harder, faster, chasing Thomas with abandon.

Thomas laughs when Alex finds just the right angle on his own, the one that hits that spot way deep inside, the one that makes his jaw go slack and heavy with the moans on his tongue, that makes his brain go hazy with _yesyesyes_ and _morepleasemore._ He knows it’s all biology and science and chemical rushes, firing synapses and other shit he learned in science class years ago but god, it feels like magic, like starbursts in his veins. Thomas leans into him, the weight of him pressing Alex into the wall and setting him on fire and it doesn’t feel like something you can replicate in a lab, something you can synthesize.

Alex holds him tighter, breathes him in deep. He smells like sex and coffee and cologne and oddly, like trees. Alex thinks it’s the full-on forest he’s attempting to plant in their apartment with a lot of skill and wishful thinking, but it reminds him of his island. This smell of wild vegetation, it reminds him of home, ever since he got in late from work last week to find Thomas tending a tiny calabash tree, the kind that grew in the front yard of the little house where Alex had played as a boy. He’d been trying to keep it a secret, make it a birthday present, but something already wasn’t growing right, and he’d been fretting that he’d have to take it to Monticello earlier than planned because no way it would survive when winter came back to the city. But alive in Monticello or dead in New York, the tree itself hadn’t mattered. Right then, the gesture alone was everything. It cemented in Alex’s head that _Thomas means home_ and just now, when he inhales, takes in the scents of pine and oak and the Caribbean, it’s a reminder that even after the worst hurricanes, you can always rebuild.

Thomas’s mouth finds its way back to his ear and he murmurs “Where’d you go?” His voice breaks, takes on the wrecked, rasping quality it always seems to when he’s close, and Alex fights to bring himself back to the present so he doesn’t miss a moment.  
  
“Trees,” he gasps, but he doesn’t think it makes sense because Thomas just laughs, thrusts up into him, says something against Alex’s cheek that doesn’t quite connect in his hazy brain.

But it doesn’t really matter because Alex is close too, because they’ve been in here too long already anyway, because their luck will only go so far before someone figures it out and then the cops get called. It becomes something of a race against a clock that isn’t yet counting down but probably will be soon; they won’t take the chance, no matter how fun it’d be. Alex slides one hand between himself and Thomas, curls his fingers around himself even though he doesn’t need to, even though he could come just like this with Thomas fucking him against the wall of a coffee shop bathroom as if that’s not one of the hotter things they’ve ever decided to do. (Spontaneity wins, hands down, every time.) Still, he rocks his hips down against Thomas, then up into his own fist, thinks that he’s never lost consciousness before due to overwhelming lust but there’s a first time for everything.

“Fuck me,” Alex moans, or at least that’s what he thinks he’s saying, and it’s coming out of his mouth like he’s a broken record, like Thomas would need to be told twice, or even once. But after all, he likes it when Alex begs for it, and so that’s all it takes for Thomas. Thomas makes a sound that Alex tries to record in his head, a sound he needs to remember for all time, because it’s something new, something both sacred and sinful, and loses himself entirely in orgasm. Alex feels it like a rush inside of him, and with Thomas fucking him through it, shaking like an earthquake and barely holding him up, it doesn’t take much. Alex comes between them, tries not to go completely boneless and become dead weight in Thomas’s arms, tries to use the wall to support himself but the wall feels like it’s tilting behind him.

He doesn’t feel Thomas letting him down, only opens his eyes when he feels Thomas leaning over him, against the wall, one arm sliding around his waist to hold both of them up.

“That was fun,” Thomas says after a long moment, and Alex leans up, pecks his lips.

“Your arms are gonna kill you tomorrow.”

Thomas shrugs, nosing against his jaw and kissing his neck. “Just means I won’t have to go the gym.” He stays pressed against Alex for what seems like hours, and Alex doesn’t want to let go. He’s just about to pull him into another kiss, a promising makeout session, when the bathroom door rattles with a knock. 

Both of their heads whip toward the door.

“Fuck,” Alex mutters, stumbling away from Thomas and grabbing for his boxers, his jeans, scrambling into them and hastily doing up the buttons on his shirt. “I’ll go first, okay?” he says, as if it matters who leaves first when someone is already at the door, as if it’s not going to be obvious why they were in there. But Thomas agrees, and Alex tries in the two seconds that he has to come up with a good excuse.

The knocking at the door becomes more persistent and Alex opens it, slips out and shuts it behind him. “Sorry,” he says, but it comes out in a weird, guilty tone that doesn’t sound like his voice. He clears his throat, tries for steady, clear. “Sorry. My boyfriend’ll be out in a minute. His, um… his stitches popped,” Alex says, thinking fast, inventing a fictional surgery, “from his appendectomy.”

The guy just stares at Alex, looks him up and down, and shakes his head with disgust. It’s clear he doesn’t believe him, and when Thomas comes out of the bathroom a moment later, looking like the picture of health and clearly not selling the story, the guy enters and slams it behind him, locking it. “He looked happy,” Thomas says with a grin.

“I told him you had an appendectomy and your stitches popped so we were getting you cleaned up. He didn’t believe me. Christ, I could have been saving your life in there,” Alex says sourly, as if he can really be annoyed that his lie didn’t work.

Thomas’ lips purse for a moment and then he bursts out laughing. “Your shirt’s misbuttoned, your fly’s undone, your hair’s a rat’s nest and you’re flushed as hell. What were you doing, fucking me back to life?”

Alex scowls, yanks Thomas in front of him to shield him from any wandering eyes, tugs up his zipper and hastily rebuttons his shirt. “Why didn’t you tell me before I walked out?”  
  
Thomas shrugs, still smirking. “You were keen on leaving. Get fucked and run, like all the boys.” He adds a dramatic sigh for good measure. “Oh, and by the way… you owe me another coffee now since you interrupted the first one before I was done. Throw in a donut and you might get a handjob at the cinema on our next night out.”  
  
Thomas turns to walk toward the counter, leaving Alex staring after him, half-smiling and shaking his head. _Crazy_ , Alex thinks, because that’s what he’s always thought. But there’s not a damn thing he would change.

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from "The Ballad of Mona Lisa" by Panic! at the Disco (yes, seriously, it just felt right). :D Also, spot the play on some lyrics from Fun Home in the fic and get 10 points! ;)


End file.
